Bloodied Determination
by Spazzkitty
Summary: The days before the civil war were always fuzzy, but the day the communists took over is as vivid in his mind as anything else can or will ever be." Focuses on the installation of a communist government. Somewhat dark/depressing. Centered around China.


I was in the shower and was inspired to write a fic about the Chinese Revolution and how China felt about being taken over. I love China and wanted to give him another of the few fics just for him and not with him in a pairing. I don't own Hetalia, China, or Communism. And I don't have anything against Communism personally, despite being an American. Just FYI. We're not all communist-hating nutjobs. Anyway, on with the fic, and I hope you like it despite the fact that it's depressing!

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Bloodied Determination

China can barely remember the days before the civil war. He only can dig up the barest sensations- the way he used to run around his beautiful and elegant house as a child, carefree and radiant and optimistic. He remembers warm hands stroking his black hair, patting his shoulders, telling him how proud they are of him. How much he means to them. That warm feeling surfaces after hearing these words- that soft, bubbling sweet feeling that says he has the faith and trust of his people.

The days before the civil war were always fuzzy, but the day the communists took over is as vivid in his mind as anything else can or will ever be. China, bedridden, covered in wounds that bleed without ceasing, with burns that ache. He can barely move, can barely breathe anymore. He knows that he is going to die. Some men come into his house and China wants more than anything to tell them to get out, to leave and never come back.

"Hello, China. It's nice to meet you."

_'Go away,' _China wants to shout. _'You did this to me. Get out of my house and out of my life.'_ He tries to fling these accusations out, spitting them forcefully and not caring whom they hurt. But he is too weak even to talk- he feels like his body is being split in half. Another gash (Another riot) splits his skin. It used to be smooth, soft and unblemished with a childlike perfection. Now every inch of him is covered with scars, bruises, and cuts. He tries again to speak, making a feeble choking sound. He isn't close to being well enough for speech, so he glares. He puts all the hatred, pain, suffering, and loss he feels into that one expression and gets satisfaction when he sees the men wince.

"We represent the Communist Party. I sincerely hope that we can get along with each other during these troubled times."

China feels revulsion boiling up in him, bubbling and frothing without an outlet. Before he can stop himself, he spits at the speaker, the one in charge. The man glares at him- he clearly wasn't expecting China's contempt.

"You don't need to like us, sir. That's perfectly fine," the man says, losing that friendly façade and looking at the wounded nation with obvious disgust. "We have the power here, and you lay dying. If you refuse to be reasonable, so be it. If China dies, we can make a new nation."

China feels tears burn his eyes as another riot erupts, this one in the form of a mottled purple bruise across his stomach. He bares his teeth in hatred at the men and manages to choke out one word- "Leave."

The lead man narrows his eyes, his lip curling into a sneer. Without another word, he turns and stalks out of the room and out of the home. His followers stand around awkwardly for a few moments, unsure whether or not to leave. Finally, after what seems like hours to China, they file out one by one, leaving China to handle his agony alone.

While China is alone, he thinks. And while he thinks, he hates. He hates those men, the ones who took over the country he was so proud of, who inspired the rebellions sapping away his very life, who didn't care that they left him broken and bleeding on his own floor. He hates Chiang Kai-shek for all the empty promises, for the false confidence, for the way he always assured China of his strength and claimed he had the support and love of all his people. He hates America, who ignored his cry for help when he needed it most and even now watches him die with the air of an apathetic bystander hearing of a crime they did not commit or witness.

He needs the hatred, feeds off it, welcomes the rage blacker than the spots on his skin. He knows rage is the only thing keeping him alive, keeping him breathing each breath through his choking windpipe and into his battered lungs, surrounded by broken ribs.

He isn't going to die. He feels that determination, second only to the overwhelming pain numbing his mind. He will not die. Every second he lives, every weak tick of his heart, only seems to straighten that resolution. He won't give them the satisfaction of lying down and submitting.

He may be weak, he may be a hair's length away from death, but he is China. He has always been strong and independent and elite. His people may have believed the others who wanted to undercut this, but he was going to remain if only to show them. He was going to prove that he was still there, still alive in the faintest memories and traditions of his people.

Drops of blood fall from a slice on his cheek, dripping onto his red shirt and basically disappearing. He vaguely finds this funny, but is unable to laugh. The blackness around his vision is closing in, making seeing difficult and unconsciousness almost welcome. He feels himself slipping into the black void with one final thought.

He is not going to die.

Because he is China.

Because he is strong.


End file.
